Friday, October 31, 2008

Did I fall or was I pushed?

Friday, October 31, 2008 12
It lurks, this thing. Just fucking sits there while I'm watching yet another video tangentially connected to my soon to tragically end, favourite soap opera in the history of the world. I feel empty inside at the end of each Daily Show these daily weekday days, and that's when I notice that tab up there, the Stranded on Gaia one that we all have on our Firefoxes. Lurking, the cunt.

I have plenty to write about. My life is packed with incident. Incident after fucking incident. But what care you, or indeed I, of a grey sky that matches yet enhances the dubious beauty of Dublin's oldest and newest buildings? Not a fucking jot. And who wants to hear of the glistening arms of Zac Efron and the interminable nature of High School Musical 3: The Quickening? Not me. Not you. Perhaps you folks yearn for a line or two around this week's homesick alien moment? How I was transported to a different time and place, a white place of perfect blinding nothingness, where I was finally freed from this weight of terror that hangs so heavy on my soul? Pale and probed, I returned and sickened to be back. No? Nor I, nor I.

High School Musical it is.

It never looked like ending, this plotlessly life-affirming, character-free epic. And so it seems reasonable to assume that it never did. I am still there, in all likelihood, shifting in my chair, and hoping beyond hope that Data, filled full of Fanta as she is, will need, just one more time, to take a bathroom break. The typing that I do now is but a dream, images projected by my subconscious mind in a desperate attempt to distract from the reality of my having to spend the rest of this hopefully short life watching a tertiary sequel to a pair of straight -to-video vats of nastiness.

I cannot take another song. These songs, they keep on fucking coming. They all sound the same, these songs, they all look the same. It may just be the same song, over and over and over again. Duet, group bit. Duet, group bit. I can tell the difference only by the number of people on the screen. This song, this single song, this soon to be ten singles song, is not a good song. It is a bad song. I do not like it. I want to die.

But when there is no singing, there is no plot where the plot should be. Nothing's fucking happening. Where are the teen pregnancies? Is the story not set in America? It's senior year. Why is nobody drunk at this party? Where are all the fucking drugs? Why the fuck is nothing fucking happening? It doesn't have to be Elephant, or even Dazed and Confused, (though it should be Dazed and Confused, why isn't it Dazed and Confused? I'm dazed and confused by its not being Dazed and Confused) but any slight, virtually imperceptible nod to the human condition would bring me much relief. Folks, I get no such nod.

Yes, the children love it. Of course they love it. It is made for them. It is designed to turn them happily into willing servants of The Man, believers in the holy trinity of The Banal, The Brand and The Bland. Servants who already raise their eyes to heaven at any slight suggestion that the entire High School Musical phenomena might be morally bankrupt. I'll learn them. Learn them all the way to their putting me in a home, nappied up, with peeling paint and dodgy drugs. This is what High School Musical 3 is to me, a long, lonely, helpless death, lacking in revelation or dignity. This is all I have look forward to as I squirm, once more, in my seat.

Go see! Go see and I'll doubtlessly see you there.

Wednesday, October 29, 2008

And I purposely won't turn the heating on

Wednesday, October 29, 2008 11
I found a temporary solution to all my problems and it came, obscenely, from work. My exercise addiction is just like its heroin equivalent. Everyday I now have to do it, just to achieve not-self-topping normality. Only a just shy of overdose dose can give me the seratonin kick that once came every time I laced up my runners and shuffled around St Anne's Park.

And so an overdose dose is what I just shot up, shot through. A bank holiday and an awol Jim from the gym led to six Spin, three Body Pumps and one stretchtastic Yoga class, all within two days. Normally with this kind of schedule I go light on the weights in pump and stay off the bike for the majority of the spins. But 'fuck it', I thought at the bottom of this muscular mountain, and 'fuck it', I thought all the way to the top. I threw on the big plates, hammered out every single sprint and stretched till I wretchedly retched. And as I collapsed on the bars last night after one last rage-filled, psychotically-screaming Alpine attack to the mashing of Daft Punk and Bon Jovi, I felt both a groundless peace and a reckless ha'ppiness creep over my person.

Today of course, I'm more fucked off than ever and incapable of separating walking from groaning. Worth it, though, for those few moments and the knowledge that they are sure to visit again.

Saturday, October 25, 2008

I've got a madman of my own to contend with, cursing in the cave of my skull

Saturday, October 25, 2008 8
I know that you want cheerful, folks, or if not cheerful, then certainly not the all-out wrist-slittingly, weepingly sore pity-fest that I've been offering up for the last week or so. I want that too, honest. Honest Native American. But I don't have it. So I thought I'd fake it. I fake a lot of shit, I can fake this.

Me and V, we used to collect movies . We were old school pirates, back in the day, the day before any Tom, Dick or Harry could happily gad about, defrauding innocent multinationals while simultaneously shitting in a dead policeman's stolen helmet and then stealing the helmet from the grieving policeman's wife, Every fucker is a pirate now, a glammed up, humour and violence free, plotless Pirates of the Caribbean style pirate. The fucking internet again, ripping the joy from everything.

V and I, living happily as a married couple, discovered that we could combine our two video recorders and copy just about any movie we cared to rent from 'Reel World', our local arty-farty video shop. We were reasonably selective to begin with, copying mostly the classics, stealing mostly from the stellar, but spurred on by a drug-fuelled enthusiasm, the whole concept quickly got out of hand.

And so the index cards came to pass. Because we had to have index cards, didn't we? How else were we to fill the empty days of the no job 'jobbing' actor?

A regular feature is born, folks. In fact, I might just do this shit every day until I stop feeling worth as much as my stock market portfolio.

That's about as witty as the comments get, folks. Though you, no doubt, will be the judge of that over the coming days, months and years.

Friday, October 24, 2008

You think you're so smart but I've seen you naked

Friday, October 24, 2008 11
Again, once a fucking gain, I cannot write about that which I want to write about. Never should I have shared this shit, no, nor made friends with invisible people. Thing is, I don't think that even if I could write about what I want to write about that I could write about it. I wouldn't know what to write, you see.

I know that this, this it, is related to rage. It is conversant with confusion. It dallies, no doubt, with depression. But it lacks any solidity, this it, being centred around shit that may not even have happened or, if it did, may not have been intended. All these happenings and non-happenings, they have me riled, addled, down. I cannot separate the three. They writhe together on the grubby kitchen floor that is my mind, addled fucking riled as riled goes down on down, a sweaty mass of squirming flesh. I try to pull them apart, force them to cease their joyless fucking but I am but one to their three, and I'm not trying too hard because really, it's making me hard, this self-composed poisoned porn of mine. It disgusts me, but I cannot tear myself away. I like too much to watch.

As expected, I have nowhere to go with this. With this, or much else.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Her eyes were just a counterfeit

Wednesday, October 22, 2008 8
You know that joke about the guy whose car breaks down outside a monastery, so he spends the night there and during the night he is awakened by this eerie 'thud, thud' noise and he's both haunted and intrigued by it and the next morning he asks the head monk guy what the noise was and the head monk guy says 'Ah, I can tell you, but first you must become a monk and do ten years training and then and only then shall the secret be revealed to you ' and the guy is sufficiently obsessed by this 'thud, thud' noise to agree to these terms and thus follows much description of said training and it all meanders along for an hour or so and then the guy finishes his ten years and there's a big build up as he goes into the now ancient abbot's office, parlour, whatever and then the joke teller says 'And do you want to know what the 'thud, thud' noise was?' and the jokee being seven or something says 'Yes!' and Jokerman goes 'Then you must become a monk and do ten years training! Hahahahaha!'

You know that joke?

Combine that with every sick 'baby with a spear through its head having difficulty negotiating a revolving door' joke you can think of, and there, right there, you have my stupid fucking life. And I'm laughing. Hear me laugh.

Hahahahahahaha!

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

With abandonment and love

Tuesday, October 21, 2008 16
The last time I made risotto, nobody ate it and so I made the calm and rational decision to throw the most massive of internal and bleughy strops. Fun! Fun for all!

It turned out that the reason Common Law didn't have any dinner that night was that she had pneumonia and a collapsed lung. Excuses, ex-fucking-cuses, right? Not my finest moment. I am just a little self-absorbed, it must be said. In fact, any day now I'm going to absorb so far into myself that all that will remain is a little toxic puddle of self-pity, globbing gently upon the kitchen floor. They can use it to make the soffitto.

But I've done better since, and more occasionally, done worse.

Therefore tonight, so many months later, I'm going to go at it again. I've already pre-cooked the chicken and mushrooms and when we get back from swimming lessons, I'll be chopping, warming and preparing to ladle and stir, ladle and stir, until creamy perfection is reached.

Maybe the Bridge Crew will spurn it once again, or perhaps my cunning plan of not allowing them eat anything between now and dinner time shall come to fruition. I have, of course, no such control over Common Law's intake, but I can only hope for the best. Hope that she hasn't re-contracted pneumonia or some other, even more exotic and life-threatening ailment. Hope that she remembers how much she used to like risotto back in the pre-pneumatic days. Hope, most of all, that I don't fuck it up and serve up some inedible mush.

Because I really don't think that I can live a life without risotto.


Today's Title

Monday, October 20, 2008

The same kind of farmer's face

Monday, October 20, 2008 20
Nothing's doing it for me today.

Not fourteen cups of espresso, not left-over chickpea salad. Not the love of three good women, not even finding my tumble-drier bent laser and visa cards.

My face is all melty, my eyes are all droopy, my weak brain appears to be enveloped in vinegar soaked candy-floss. But on the upside, I do have the use of my limbs.

Finbar was on the phone last night. We exchanged children stories for a while. His youngest daughter is on course to represent her country in hockey, mine is, as yet, unincarcerated. We're both rambling mumblers so we filled many more minutes talking about fuck all. And as the converstation stumbled to its usual conclusion, we arrived, by way of my other sister's imminent milestone, upon the topic of a colleague of his, a 57 year old sub-11 hour Ironman.

This guy, this man of undoubted iron, was out mountain-biking on a popular Penticton trail when he had himself a leetle crash. He was not descending at any death-defying speed. No, he was climbing, slowly. Hit a sliver of early ice and was tossed gently over his handlebars. Landed on his chin. Hyper-extended his neck, violently. His friends, all medical men, kept him alive for three hours as they waited for the helicopter. He came out of the coma in a matter of days. And now he can blink. That's it. Just with the blinking.

And how does this tragedy make the all-important I feel? What do I take from this tale? What can I learn? That I should embrace life, surely. That I must now cut out the whinging, the whining, the moaning. Stop feeling sorry for myself and get out there and enjoy every minute with my family and friends.

No. That's not what I take from it at all.


Today's Title

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Not just once, not just twice

Sunday, October 19, 2008 8
I try to maintain high standards in my on-line life. Not posting endless youTube clips. Slagging off those who do. Going on chat, talking with like-minded people, slagging off those who do. Those kind of high-standards. I'm always setting standards, it must be said, and often failing miserably to rise anywhere near them.

So a youTube clip. 

Just the one. 

Not this, which extracted a laugh from even the reticent Riker, because everyone's seen it and has their own opinion.

Not this, via Bock, which makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and full of an unrealistic hope of a world gone not so wrong.

No, nor even this, which I link to whenever I can, on bicycle fora, on political blogs, on Boney M fansites, for reasons too sordid to explain here.

But this, yes it be this:



Yeah, it's fucking Radiohead. Get over it. And anyway, they're wearing bicycle helmets.

Friday, October 17, 2008

My heart is not weary, it's alive and it's free

Friday, October 17, 2008 16
The eagle-eyed among you will have noticed a certain theme in the names of this week's posts. Or fucking not. Perhaps people do not obsessively google my every slaved-over title. Perhaps people are losers.

New Dylan out this week, folks, and it's a fucking cracker. I hadn't been keeping up with Zimmerman gossip so it kind of came as a surprise. The unsought often means that little bit extra to me.

Yeah, yeah, you all hate Dylan. Everyone in my life hates Dylan, pack of tasteless tossers that they are. But there hasn't been a Bootleg Series like this since the very first release of Volumes 1-3. One of the multiple new versions of Mississippi has been played, my iTunes tells me, exactly 33 times over the last three days. There has been much room leaving on the part of The Bridge Crew, much sighing, volume-adjusting and can we please not listen to thising from Common Law.

If you did Bodypump or spin this week you'll have heard it too. Because I'm picking the music, fuckers, and you need to hear this. Allow me to grab you by your lycra and pull you close and breathe these words in your face: 'We're all boxed in, nowhere to escape.'

The original Mississippi was always a favourite, but this new one, oh my good sky full of fire, this one does something to me, something way deep down, that you will be desperate for me to not describe. And so I shall refrain.

There's also a 'Most of the Time' which sounds like it could have come from 'Blood on the Tracks'. Just Robert, guitar, and face organ, free from the disgustingly U2ish Lanois layering that threatened to marr the brilliance of the 'Oh Mercy' original. This has made me both sniffle and cry twice already. It's so fucking jaunty, you see. Jaunty heartbreak, it breaks my jaunty heart.

Loads of mouth-watering new-to-me material too, but you don't want to fucking hear it do you? Hear it or hear about it. So I'll let you go now, off to your mundane non-Dylan soundtracked lives. Just so's you know: 'The emptiness is endless, cold as the clay, you can always come back, but you can't come back all the way.'

Oh, and I think I've swung a ticket to Cyndi for tomorrow night. I'm fucking large, folks. You know the rest of the quote.

Today's Title and if you just can't stand that nasally whine, The Lyrics

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Say anything you wanna, I have heard it all

Wednesday, October 15, 2008 3
I can no longer fall asleep without a voice in my ear. Unless I'm really, really fucking drunk and even then there is a palpable moment of uneasiness before I drift into that sweet cocktail coma.

It started with Garrison, warbling soporific tales of small town America. It moved to John Cleese as Screwtape. More recently, the tragically deteriorating Terry Pratchett has dominated. But these last weeks, thanks to the magnificence of BBC's iPlayer, it's been all about the Sherlie Homeboy, that other Conan creation.

As a rule, dramatisations suck the big one, but these playified all too short stories do it for me. They suck my big one, in fact. The leads, whose names still elude me, are at least as effective as the Jeremy Brett/that other guy combo and the adaptations are, for the most part, lacking in creakiness, except in the regular instances where creakiness is appropriate. But there's a problem.

You knew there was a problem, right? There's always a fucking problem. And generally, as in this case, it's a super fucking predictable problem. I keep falling asleep. Falling asleep and missing the end. Missing the end and waking up to pee too blearily to work out where I was. And crashing the next night and going 'fuck it' and moving on to the next one and blah, blah fucking blah...

Jesus, but I bore the crap out of myself sometimes.

John Simm was in last night's episode. I drifted off before he came into it. I mention this only because if look at him, Mr Simm, from the side and make him to close his eyes, he looks exactly like me. Though less hairy. It's true. I swear to God. Cunt got all my parts, I reckon.

Thought that might add a little to this offering but no, still fucking bored.

Here's
the good shit. I also recommend 'Brideshead Revisited' and 'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow' though I have no idea how either of them end.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Time is pilin' up, we struggle and we scrape

Tuesday, October 14, 2008 9
Alarmist budget day text from V:

It's over. Get those kids fluent in as many languages as possible and sort out some Canadian passports too.

Witty response from Gimme:

Jeez dude, it's only 50c.

Profound retort from V:

Exactly.

I don't know exactly what he means but nevertheless, anyone know any Canadians I can marry?

Feeling like a stranger nobody sees

Ugly, ugly, ugly. I should fire up thesaurus.com in a King Stephen rebellion and discover other words that I am but I can't do it. My fingers, they're too ugly.

Yes, I have the ever-ballooning bouffant. Roger to the uni-brow. Bang on with the hideously hairy, never to be shifted pot-belly, affirmative with the big arse, short legs, grotesque fat/skinny combination. But it's deeper than that, this ugliness that I have. Oh, how very, very deep this ugly of mine goes.

It's the hate, I suspect, that makes me ugly. Everyday, I hate a little more. Hate me, hate you, hate them. Hate my mental paralysis, my physical failings, my inability to fill up the rule of threes. Born beautiful I was, but like Dahl's Mrs Twit, each date of hate adds, like a banker's bonus, a slight sliver of soul disfigurement, a wafer thin minty layer of ugly,

You'll be assuming folks, and assuming hard, that this is all just another daily dose of shame and self-pity, to be soothed by soft, sweet, comment caressing. And you'd be fucking wrong. Again. My ugly is proud today. He and I strut magnificently about the kitchen, kicking stuffed puppies and popping balloons, finding fault in others and glorying in ourselves. 'Fuck you, cunt!', we scream as we stomp, filled up with life, hating each other, hating ourselves.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Your days are numbered, so are mine

Sunday, October 12, 2008 14
As I drivingly (I know, I know, shut the fuck up) approached the Talbot Memorial Bridge on my merry way to work this morning, I came to the realisation that people over the age of, say 75 should be, if not taken out and shot, then certainly not permitted to propel motorised hunks of metal. A little old lady, piloting a little old car, changed lanes suddenly and with all the drama of a Euripidean tragedy. I know not if Alcestis signalled her decision to die in place of her good-for-nothing kingly spouse, but this elderly chick certainly made no indication of her intentions as she cuttingly took on the role of Admetus in this little Grecian scenario.

From my subsequent and brief post horn-blaring, minor stroke-having glance, I gleaned that this woman was ninety if she was a fucking millisecond and barely capable of peering over the steering wheel, such was her littleness. And just like everyone's favouritest obscure deal-making king, her driving spoke clearly of her search for an innocent to die in her place. Yet this playlet seemed unlike to finish with Heracles kickng the shit out of Death and returning me veiled and voiceless to live out my natural life.

You don't know what the fuck I'm talking about, do you?

And I don't fucking care. I'm alarmingly alive, and in that kind of elitist, showy-offy mood.

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Carlton and Chester

Thursday, October 9, 2008 28
I press the blankets away with my still chilled feet. I wake then, not sharply, but completely, and become subtly aware of a change. My box room, though still huge to me, retains its familiarity of shape and scale but is definitively different. Colours, red and blue. Noise, small crowd sounds, as of a not unusual dinner party, but from the wrong direction and of a tone that is new to me.

I arise, and stumble to the potty, my way lit by the slowly flashing lights that bleed through thin curtains. I sit down to pee, blinking in time with the pretty pulses, thinking of nothing. The odd sounds continue, here a cry, there a low moan. I pull my pyjamas up and peek around the cracked open door. A giant blue shape stands with its back to me on the threshold of my parent's bedroom.

I'm thirsty, I decide to go downstairs. I pass by the uniformed man, hearing my mother's voice clearly, cracked and wordless. I sit on the top step and shift my way down, stair by stair.

The kitchen door is open, lights abaze. Unfamiliar figures sit around the table drinking unfamiliar tea. I remain unseen, and being shy, I totter instead to the unlit living room. I have no fear of the dark. Carlton and Chester, my teddy bears, sit on the couch, not tidied away. I go to them and have them quietly engage in a boxing match. Carlton wins. Carlton always wins, being a manly dirty grey to Chester's sickly orange.

I'm still thirsty, but when I check the kitchen, the crowd remains. I return to my bears, spotting my father's Nikon on a high shelf as I go. I drag the brown corduroy lounger over to the book case and, on tip toe, manage to snag the shoulder strap. I pull the camera down. It narrowly misses my head as it falls gently onto the seat. I clamber down, and toting the heavy camera, go back to the couch. I arrange Carlton and Chester in a friendly pose and begin my first attempt at portraiture. The film is used up by the time the flashes alert one of the unknown grown ups.

'Hello there.'

'Hello.'

'Shouldn't you be in bed?'

'I'm thirsty.'

Above us, my mother holds my breathless and unmoving brother, as my father stands to one side, already distant.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Same ol' fuckin' story

Tuesday, October 7, 2008 12
They tried to make me sell last night. Sell some new energy drink with taurine and caffeine and many other kinds of tine. They should have known better.

Everyone got a free bottle of enhanced sugar water shoved up their drinks cage. I was charged with the explanation and up-talking of this fresh and fragrant product. I elected to not do this. Instead I embarked on a lengthy and peripatetic diatribe on the crappiness of nearly every energy drink on the market.

'Orange juice, water, pinch of salt,' I said. 'Double espresso before you hit the road. Jelly babies. These are your requirements.'

I got a few titters, and a little sage nodding. I decided to relent, slightly. 'This one might be great though, I haven't tried it.' I turned up the Cyndi and began my circle spiel. Don't fucking tell me what to do, wage masters.

Petty, small and sad rebellions are all I that have to offer in this losing war against the man.


Today's Title

Sunday, October 5, 2008

And yet I guess it makes me smile

Sunday, October 5, 2008 11
10.37

I'm sitting crippled on the couch heaving hot whiskey-fumed breaths into balloon after balloon. Data charges chaotically about, having already had herself a little sugar pick me up, just a wee snifter to prepare herself for the build-up to a party that still lies four and a half hours hence. My head moans, my belly burns, my very being reeks.

Breathe, inflate. Breathe, inflate. Breathe, inflate.

Do not hurl. Party favours and whiskey vomit do not a happy couple make.

12.26

Halfway through the shopping for shit and I need to piss. It's deep, this need. I've been drinking water all morning, fighting for normality, the semblance of sedation. We do not, as a rule, buy this kind of junk and I have no idea where any of it lives. Crisps? No clue. Coke? Couldn't tell you. Cocktail sausages? I'm fucked if I know. Don't they come frozen? I no longer feel like throwing up, but I'm right on the edge of an equally inappropriate mishap.

I reach for someone wearing a t-shirt that proclaims: Got a question? - Just ask!

'Why did I drink last night?' I whisper desperately. 'Why?'

'Wha'?' he grunts.

'Where are your straws?' I repeat.

'Next one over.' he replies, backing away from my terrible need.

14.15

I have yet to shower. I wrap the parcel that will soon be passed. Wrapping paper, tinfoil, newspaper, tissue, repeat. Four times I fail to rip sufficient tinfoil from the roll. I think about crying but reckon Data who is, I'm told, 'stressed' by the imminent arrival of her guests, has that shit covered. The doorbell chimes, like Bow Bells in my brain. If it's polite to be 20 minutes late what the fuck is 45 minutes early? Genocide?

It's not a guest. It's my paternal aunt who to my eternal embarrassment, I see only when she comes to drop off presents for my children on their birthdays and Christmas. I have no doubt that there is some recipricatory ettiquette that I should be following but I generally take the road less travelled on this baby. The road of sitting there, being a thoughtless bastard. She lingers too long, this generous lady and when I get back to that parcel from the past it is:

14.47

And here comes a problem, a real doozy. Data and Riker have pre-emptively worked their way through a 'share-size' bottle of Fanta. 1.25 litres seemed like loads to me, but apparently fucking not. A nip to the local shop is the obvious solution but that would leave me still showerless and frankly, putrid. Common Law could go in my stead, I guess. However, despite being up and cleaning since seven am, she has failed to squeeze in either the obtaining of a provisional driving licence or indeed the learning to drive. The useless cow.

And so I go. I return. I dash upstairs. I undress, do the babywipe thang, re-dress in fresher, marginally less deadbeat clothes, brush my teeth just one more time and saunter downstairs to greet the gift bearing four year olds.

It can only get better, right?

Friday, October 3, 2008

Desolation, Day Four

Friday, October 3, 2008 31
Lights up on a suburban cul de sac. Johnny, Eric and Barry play football. Johnny is instantly recognizable as the most gifted proponent of the art of three-and-in. We watch him run rings around his playmates for a time, before:

Johnny's Mother: Johnny! Your dinner.

Johnny catches the ball.

Johnny: Gotta go.

Eric: Fuck. Fine then. See you after.

Johnny: I'm not coming back out. I have to go to training.

Eric: Oh right.

Barry: Can you leave us the ball?

Johnny: Nah, sorry.

Barry: Yeah, ok.. See you later.

Johnny: I'm not coming back out.

Barry: Jesus. Fine. See you tomorrow then.

Johnny: Yeah, maybe.

Eric: The fuck do you mean maybe? We play three-and-in every fucking day after homework.

Johnny: Yeah, but...

Eric: Yeah but what?

Johnny's mother: (drunkenly) Johnny, get your fat ass in here now and eat your fucking cornflakes!

Johnny: I have to go.

Eric: Yeah, yeah. See you later.

Johnny leaves, with ball.

Eric: Cunt.

Barry: Well...

Eric: Well, what?

Barry: He had to go in.

Eric: Yeah. But he could have left us the ball.

Barry: It's his ball. His Ma doesn't let him. Anyway, I've got a tennis ball, we can use that.

Eric: And the fuck was he talking about 'maybe'?

Barry: I don't know.

Eric: He thinks he's so fucking great.

Barry: I guess.

Eric: What do you mean, you guess?

Barry: Nothing. Let's play with the tennis ball.

Eric: Oh, for fuck's sake.

Barry: What?

Eric: It's not the same thing is it? And anyway, you can't play three-and-in with two people.

Barry: So we'll play heads and volleys.

Eric: With a fucking tennis ball?

Barry: What?

Eric: There's only one cunt around here who can flick a tennis ball up with his foot, and that cunt just fucked off and left us alone.

Barry: Jesus Christ. He had to go in. And he doesn't owe us anything. He can do what he wants. Let's just fucking play.

Eric: Fuck you.

Barry: What?

Eric: Fuck you.

Barry: Jesus. Whatever.

Eric: Fuck you.

Barry: Don't you think you're over-reacting a little?

Eric: Fuck you, I said.

Barry: Fine. I'm going in.

Eric: No, you're fucking not.

Barry: Yes, I am. You're being a cunt.

Eric: Am I now?

Barry: Yes.

Eric: Maybe I am. But you're not going in.

Barry: Yes, I fucking am.

Eric: (produces hunting knife, approaches Barry, plunges knife into Barry's abdomen) No (stab) You're. (stab) Fucking. (stab) Not. (stab)

Barry lies bleeding. Eric picks up the tennis ball. Bounces it interestingly, thoughtfully.

Thursday, October 2, 2008

I would like you to dance

Thursday, October 2, 2008 6
Data's birthday today. Again. Four, don't you know.

That's it for the sweet toddling, folks. It's all moaning and whining and sulking and I hate you slammed doors from here on in. Not that she hasn't been doing all this for years already, but now there begins a downturn in cuteness offsets, a dirth of eager errors to balance the trials.

She called me from the top of the stairs yesterday.

'Daaaaaaaaady!'

'Are you okay?'

'Yes.'

'What's the matter?'

'There's a spider in my doll house.'

'Oh.'

'It's just a little spider.'

'Okay. Do you want me to move it?'

'But it is not my pet.'

'Sorry, sweetie?'

'It's not my pet, please.'

'Um, do you want it to be?'

'Yes. Yes, please.'

'So you don't want me to come up and move it then?'

'No.'

'Okay.'

'Daddy?'

'Yes?'

'There's a spider in my doll house.'

We won't be doing it ourselves, for so many a reason, but I do understand why people insist on endlessly pumping them out.
 
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